Castle Crumbling
by AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: 1534. "When Mary escapes this hellhole, she will round up everyone who has ever scorned her and have their tongues severed, fried, and fed back to them on a platter garnished with sweetmeats." Threeshot. AU, darkfic. Warnings inside.
1. Falling

**A/N: This fic is the darkest I have ever written. It contains graphic depictions of violence, self-harm, and physical abuse, among other things. There is no happy ending to this AU fic, which will be a threeshot. Expect updates every two or three days.**

Title taken from Katy Perry's "Wide Awake".

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

 _Falling_

Life at Hatfield is, in some ways, not so different from life at Ludlow. Both are royal manors dedicated to the upbringing of the current heir presumptive, and staffed with the necessary maids, grooms, cooks, and supplies to accomplish that objective. True, at Hatfield, there is always a slight undercurrent of tension, that frisson of fear present beneath the surface. ( _As there well should be,_ Mary thinks smugly, _for no matter how they deceive themselves, they know in their hearts that the cause they serve is but a farce._ ) But on the whole, the bustle at Hatfield House very much resembles the bustle Mary can recall from Ludlow Castle- the homage and respect paid to the heir to the throne, the flurry of ceremony at mealtimes and on state occasions, and the general to-ing and fro-ing of the household occupants to ensure the wellbeing of their charge. After all, such bustle once revolved around her, and she, better than anyone at Hatfield, would recognize it.

Which makes it all the more disorienting to find herself firmly on its fringes, rather than at the center. Jarringly familiar, and yet so jarringly alien. It is a dichotomy that she cannot quite accept, even after months of being forced to lead a servant's life. In her more whimsical moments, she fancies that she has been blown from the proverbially calm eye of the storm into the blustery outskirts. And even were she given the opportunity, she is not sure she could find find her way back to the center, where her rightful place is ( _was_ ) ( _is?)_.

Being on the marge, when she can shut out the humiliation and fear, consists of utter boredom and isolation. No education, no music, no books, no letters, no visitors, no conversation, no activities other than what Lady Bryan decrees be her task for that day. She is no longer a princess, no longer is her time her own; now everything she is and everything she has is pledged to the service and command of another.

How do the other girls of Elizabeth's household find it an honor to serve? But then again, they are not prisoners; they, too, have demands upon them, but their hearts are not burdened with them as Mary's is. They are nobleborn and gentleborn, and for them, serving a King's illegitimate daughter is an excellent opportunity. But for a princess of the blood, it's an insult of the highest degree.

 _How_ , Mary wonders for the thousandth time, _how does a king, a man of God, a father believe his daughter can passively accept being demoted to a bastard, after seventeen years of being legitimate? How does he send away my mother, treat her so abominably when all she ever did was be a true wife to him?_

She wants her family to be together again, so desperately she can almost taste it.

* * *

 _An enormous banquet; she was six. Her father swung her up before his court and tugged her hood off so that her bare head was revealed to all. He hoisted her onto his shoulders, so that Mary towered above the crowds._

 _The sight of her mother striding over sent a quiver of worry through Mary, further heightened when the queen bent down and scooped up her discarded hood. Was Mama going to scold them for behaving like this in public?_

 _But Mama merely helped undo the knot set at the top of Mary's head, so that her blonde hair tumbled down in waves- it would later darken to red, to match both of her parents'. Papa couldn't reach her hair, perched as she was on his shoulders, so Mama had helped. Mary shook her hair out of her face, her heart aglow with the murmuring approval of the court, her father's boisterous pride, and her mother's indulgent joy._

* * *

SMACK!

Mary's reverie shatters and a frowning Lady Bryan snaps into vision before her. The dull ache of Mary's cheek and the governess's raised hand are the only clues that she has been slapped across the face; her mind registers numb shock and not much else beyond.

She is too shaken by how desperate her longing was, how little control she has over her own mental faculties, to spare any anger for the blow she has just been dealt. She reverts to instinct, trying to remember what chore she was meant to be doing, and nearly breaks a vase in her haste.

Sniggers and whispers accompany this latest mishap. If ( _when_ ) she escapes this hellhole, she will round up everyone who has ever scorned her and have their tongues severed, fried, and fed back to them on a platter garnished with sweetmeats. A thrilling fantasy that is only reinforced when she hears, "It's a wonder the King hasn't yet put her to death."

The shadow of fear whispers behind her shoulder, a susurrating presence Mary has long since expected but never accepted. She tries to console herself with the meager information she has gathered, scraps that she must make do with-

And indignation breaks onto the shores of her heart. She is like a beggar, subsisting on scraps: the scraps of rapidly fraying gowns that make up her wardrobe, the bits and pieces of information that happen to wind their way down from court to her ears, the crumbs of food that constitute her diet now that she is barred from the Great Hall at mealtimes, the tiny scraps of affection that she clings to like smoke clings to cloth.

And the one responsible for it all, the one who bewitched her father and turned her world upside down, reduced her from the Princess of Wales and the pearl of her parents' world to Lady Mary, the lowest wench at Hatfield, is Anne Boleyn.

Or more accurately, Elizabeth. That abomination, born of a bigamous marriage, who now commands Mary's old position and birthright, whose very existence contradicts Mary's own.

It scares Mary to know she is capable of such envy and fury, all-consuming ferocity like nothing she has ever known before. All her frantic prayers and attempts to read scripture do nothing to soothe her heart. Her mother always maintained ( _maintains_ ) her grace and dignity; why can't Mary do the same?

There are times when she wants to give in to the madness, the anger, the fury. Sink into it and let it _become_ her. She gazes at the abyss and wonders if she stares at it or it stares at her. It never leaves her, and when she lies awake on her uncomfortable pallet at night and tastes the bitter flavor of broken dreams and stolen lives, she feels herself falling, falling, falling.

* * *

 **A/N:** The flashback is taken directly from history. This chapter on its own isn't really AU, but it lays the groundwork for what comes next. Second chapter should be up in a few days!


	2. Rising

**A/N:** This next chapter is rated M, and where the real darkness & AU sets in. Please exercise caution if you continue to read.

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO**

 _Rising_

Wooden rosary pearls that once spooled around Isabella's fingers, then Katherine's ( _Catalina's_ ) hands, and now Mary's own calloused and contusion-stippled digits. Beads that are now smoother than skin, or at least certainly smoother than her bruised, battered flesh.

She is in the middle of a _Pater Noster_ when she thinks she feels the rosary thrumming faintly. No- that cannot be. It must be her own hands, gripping it so tightly she can feel the vibrations of her bones.

But even when she relaxes her grip, she can still feel that pulsation. She looks properly at the relic and fancies that the beads are shining slightly. Luminous not with candlelight but with a pearly white light of their own. Yes, the rosary is glowing and vibrating with energy.

Mary gives her head a thorough shake, not wanting to indulge in childish whimsy when she should be turning her mind to God. She returns to her orisons, but the rosary continues to hum softly against her knuckles, and even with her eyes closed, she can sense a soft brightness.

When she has finished and is preparing for bed, she coils up the rosary and sets it on her nightstand. Just as she is getting under the covers, however, she grabs it and tucks it into the cambric of her nightgown. She settles as best she can on her hard pallet. A solitary candle burns on the nightstand.

Mary imagines hurling it to the ground. The flame would gutter out momentarily, before hissing tongues of vermillion flicker into being, licking the floorboards and spreading out, celerity intensifying every second. Smoke eddies about, first gossamer-wispy and then thick and black and acrid. The cozy yellow glow of the room has become a menacing orange, and soon turns a glaring red. Heat curls and curdles underneath her peeling skin. The conflagration has reached the ceiling, and flaming splinters now drop from above, an enormous crackling issuing as it sweeps the house-

Mary blinks.

* * *

The rosary is tucked into the sleeve of her gown. She does not wear it as a necklace; she would not commit one more blasphemy under the roof of a house that is blasphemy epitomized. But she wants it on her person as she carries out her chores, wants to feel the cool brush of wood against her skin. Its presence soothes her, like a holy wrist grazing her own.

Until it slips out onto the ground with a resounding clatter.

Lady Bryan snatches it up before Mary can, holding it up for all and sundry to see. _El rosario de dos reinas más católicas_ in the hands of a knight's wife and a harlot's aunt.Then Lady Bryan drops it back onto the floor. She stomps on it, her heel digging into it as the beads crack and splinter. When the governess removes her shoe, Mary can see that some pieces have become embedded in the floorboards, while other beads are still intact.

Lady Bryan- and the other ladies- are looking at her, waiting for a reaction. But Mary is still, stock-still, motionless like a statue of alabaster. Even when Lady Bryan shouts at her, snaps her fingers in her face, shakes her. Finally they file away, leaving Mary standing in the exact same position.

* * *

The sun is setting, and Mary is still there.

She moves finally, her joints gritty and stiff. She kneels with trembling knees, sifts through the rubble of the rosary and gathers the fragments into her cupped hands. Mary fists her hands closed, but glinting between her fingers is a faint celestial gleam. She does not wince when the shards cut into her skin. She does not abate the pressure, even when the pieces are more scarlet than silver.

* * *

The maid posted at the threshold of Elizabeth's nursery is half-fogged with sleep and barely acknowledges Mary when she whispers that she has come to take over her shift. The maid nods and hastens off with nary a backwards glance.

Even in the dark of night, Mary knows the nursery is well-furnished. Tapestries of gold filigree cover every surface, and soft carpet rasps under her feet. A cradle sits in the corner, swathed in silk curtains.

Mary thinks of plaster walls and a low-hanging ceiling, of knots on her head and knees cramping from being tucked in so her feet do not spill over the edge of the cot. She flexes her fingers, her punctured skin protesting and the cuts splitting open again.

She kneels by the cradle.

Mary skims a thumb over Elizabeth's cheek, rosy even in sleep. The curves of her cheekbones, the set of her sockets and nose, they are all hallmarks of a visage that will one day mirror her mother's. If her eyes were open, they would be the glittering onyx twins of Anne's. But Elizabeth's chin, her tiny brow, those are in their father's image. In the Tudor cast.

And those tiny auburn curls that adorn her crown speak of a legacy that she and her half-sister share. Mary's locks are ashier, thanks to her Spanish heritage, her age, and her travails. But they have both inherited the red-gold tresses of Elizabeth of York, this girl-child's namesake and the gracious mother of the Tudor dynasty.

Her fingers continue exploring the minute countenance, leaving a faint smear of crusted blood in their wake. Mary's right hand moves from her cheek to her nose and her chin, and then to her neck.

Elizabeth stirs.

Mary's other hand moves to join her right.

Her fingers wrap around her throat.

It is so tiny, her hands could encircle it twice. She clamps down, increasing the pressure. Elizabeth's eyes fly open; as Mary predicted, they are black and polished. There is a dry, piteously thin whimper that soon fades. Mary's fingers tighten, her knees burn from the awkward position. How soft the skin is, how pliant it is!

One hand moves up, covering up the dainty little nose and mouth. Mary's other hand bears down on her neck. The sudden stench of urine- Elizabeth has wet herself. Her arms, her legs twitch. Her skin turns blue.

Mary's hands are taut, rigid, tense. When she releases them after an eternity, the child is limp.

She deposits Elizabeth back into her cradle, tucking the blankets in around her, up to her chin. Mary backs away, never turning her face from her. At the door, she sweeps a deep curtsy, the deepest curtsy she has ever made to anyone, even deeper than any she ever made to her mother.

Her forehead presses into the rushes, and then she is rising. Even as she moves out of the nursery, she is rising, rising, rising.


	3. Steadying

**CHAPTER THREE**

 _Steadying_

She eases the heavy oak door shut, its gentle thud the only sound in the oppressive, still silence. She steps back. She still does not turn her back from the nursery. In the semi-darkness, Mary examines the magnificent insignia painted on the door. A Tudor rose, red and white in all its enormity, blooms upon the wood. The sight of it almost soothes her, until she notices the tiny falcon set above it, a dull gold fledgling set above the emblem of her house. Her _family_.

She scratches away at it, her nails breaking upon the wood. She gnaws at it when that fails, the paint bitter upon her tongue. Finally she walks away, gold grit under her fingernails and on the edges of her teeth.

Mary's movement through the corridors is unsteady. She zigzags here and there, bounces off the walls. Her father once told her when they were out hunting that clever prey flee in a meandering path rather than a straight line, the better to avoid the hunter. Looking back, it's an odd piece of knowledge for her father to have possessed; why would _he_ ever need to worry about being hunted? He is a king. But then again, he always has been the consummate hunter, of course he would know.

Mary wonders if she is the prey or the hunter.

Or the bow.

It's quiet, so quiet. She wishes she could bottle up the silence, cork it up- no, she would not like that, to be able to drink it only once. Better to preserve it forever and have it always. Spin it like silk, into a fine cloak to wear about her shoulders. Her mother would know how to make such a cloak, and if she did not, she would gladly learn how, for she always wanted only the best for Mary.

 _Only the best for her only princess after all… and why should a shawl of night be denied to her?_

Her mother always had ( _has_ ) been a fine seamstress, to the extent that five years into the Great Matter, Father had permitted her to sew his shirts. It was only when the concubine threw one of her tantrums that he finally took action. He had ridden away from the palace with his lady-love, but not before banishing her mother to the More and Mary to Richmond; it was the last time any of them had seen each other since. Twenty years together, and her father had not even bothered to say a proper goodbye to her mother…

 _Oh Father, the heights- or rather, the depths of your temerity…_

She bolts the door to her room, but the addition of a solid barrier between herself and the world does nothing to slow her pacing, her twitching. She scoops up her rosary, or at least what remains of its skeleton-

 _Skeleton skeletal skeletal fragments we all become dust at the end of the road_

Mary runs it through her fingers, even as more bits splinter off, until finally the rosary is no longer a loop but a string. She wills it to glow, for God's light to emanate from it as it did before, before she flings aside the faithless ornament.

She splays her hands out in front of her. The skin crinkles and tears anew. A fresh drop of blood, cherry-red, beads up on the heel of her hand. She flicks her hand so that it trickles into her palm. Mary is fascinated, holding her wrist at eye level so that she might examine it.

A chink of light suddenly illuminates her raised hand. It renders the droplet transparent, so that it is no longer cherry-red but blinding white.

She clenches her fist, smearing the blood. The chink broadens into a beam, and then into a shaft of sunlight. The shaft strikes the latticed leads of the window at such an angle that it is refracted, and the chamber is besprinkled with tiny sparks of rainbow.

* * *

The nursery of Hatfield is in an uproar.

Maids keen, scream, cling to each other. When Lady Bryan closes her eyes, she sees the silhouette of an enormous cradle, the bed hangings curtaining- no, _shrouding_ \- the figure inside. She blinks it firmly away, and begins barking out orders to the guards who have just shown up on the scene. A cold hand seizes her heart, its pressure unremitting.

The guards haul forward the woman who should have been on the nightwatch. They shake the stricken maid, insensible as she is with tears and fear. In between her breathless weeping, she swears that she knows nothing. Over and over they fire questions at her, to no avail. Then suddenly-

"The Lady Mary! The King's daughter. She came well past midnight and bid me leave-"

The pressure of the cold hand snaps, and Lady Bryan is suddenly giddy, airy, intellect skittering away. Her vision turns black and red at the edges. The room is silent, an awful tension descending.

She turns suddenly and runs up the stairs to the attic with the agility of a much younger woman. A trail of guards follows her like a coterie. Comprehension drums a steady tattoo in her throat, in time to her footsteps, her palpitating heart.

She throws open the door to the Lady Mary's room with such force that it bounces off the paneling and slams back in her face. She hurls it open again and stumbles into the chamber.

The first thing she notices is that the room is awash in blinding sunlight. The neatly made bed is the second detail she notices.

The detritus of silver wood is scattered across the floor. Less than a handspan above the rubble is a pair of feet.

Mary hangs in the middle of the room, head bowed forward, slightly askew to the left. Her shoulders are hunched forward as though in penitence, her hair obscures her face. The bolt of fabric twisted around her neck is knotted to the rafters- it's an attic room, after all.

Her feet sway yet, but all pendulums eventually still, and already they are steadying, steadying, steadying.

* * *

 **A/N:** *Releases breath I didn't realize I was holding.* This is the darkest fic I have ever written, and it took not a few tries to work up the courage to post it.

This fic was born out of my twisted musings on how Mary might have responded very differently to her isolation and abuse at Hatfield. I have also wondered if it was a good idea for Henry to instruct Mary to care for Elizabeth, considering he knew she would have no reason to love the child; then again, he was trying to send a message to England as much as to Mary and probably didn't care all that much.

I have no idea how this alternate course of events would have panned out in the long term; I was more interested in exploring Mary's descent into insanity and its devastating consequences. If anyone wants to share their thoughts, I'm all ears.


End file.
